It had been three weeks without a case.
Sherlock had shot the wall, broke three strings on his violin, ran every experiment he had the supplies for, instigated John, watched the telly, read several books, slept, walked through London looking for a fight, and even willingly ate the food John would leave sitting in front of him while he glowered at the coffee table.
He almost texted Mycroft.
Three weeks without a case and all because Sherlock didn't realize Anderson's wife was at the crime scene. Who brings their wife to a crime scene? A crime scene where their lover is also working? Who could be so bloody stupid?
Lestrade told him a month at least. At least.
He wasn't sure he was going to make it.
Then John decided to leave for the weekend.
"It's just two nights, Sherlock. Two nights with Sarah. I really like her, so I hope you understand. We're not even going far, just half an hour away."
"But I'm bored, John. I'm going crazy. I'm going to lose my mind."
"No, you won't. It's too big for you to lose track of it. You'll survive, Sherlock."
And he was gone.
But the truth was, Sherlock wasn't sure he could survive a weekend with John away while he was in such a state. It had been bad enough when he was simply dating Sarah. It was a relationship in the workplace. They saw each other all the time. John would talk about her constantly. They went on dates every Friday night. John had just started spending the night at her house. The first time Sherlock had seen him after one of these nights spent away, he noted the disheveled hair, the rumpled clothing, the smug smile that refused to go away, it had almost made Sherlock throw up. He was just jealous of the time John spent with other people. He had come to terms with that. John was a good conductor of light, always making Sherlock feel brilliant. It was convenient having him around. Any time spent away was infringing on that.
Perhaps that's all Sherlock needed. Something else that could help him conduct that light, make him shine. He needed something challenging, a case, something that could help him focus on one thing instead of on all the noise that was constantly running around inside his head.
He lasted until Saturday afternoon before he made the call from the payphone three streets over that he was 95% sure that Mycroft was not tracing.
An hour later he was slipping a 50 into the hands of a man outside of the convenience store where he had just purchased a pack of cigarettes. Let Mycroft think it was one vice instead of another. That would help keep him off the trail.
Back at the flat, Sherlock dug out the kit he had tucked away months and months ago beneath the floorboards in his bedroom. He sat on the couch and placed the wooden box carefully onto the coffee table. He laid out his supplies: a fresh needle, the elastic band he used as a tourniquet, the bottle of saline he would use to mix the solution. He pulled the baggie out of his pocket, the white powder a familiar sight that had Sherlock's senses on edge. How long had it been?
He had tucked his kit under the floorboards two days before John had moved in. He promised himself when he put it there that the next time he touched it would only be because he needed it. Because he couldn't live unless he had another hit. Because there was nothing else that could shut off the noise.
Then there was John. Brilliant, confusing, perplexing John. John who always knew how to put Sherlock in his place when he needed it, listen when he wanted it, and give as good as he got. John who didn't mind the violin playing at three in the morning so long as it was actually music. John who frowned upon using nicotine patches as a stimulant. John who looked shattered when he discovered the drugs bust could have been so much worse. Could have been real. John who hadn't stopped looking for track marks since that day.
John who left him to spend the weekend away with his girlfriend.
John who would come back in a moment if Sherlock asked him to.
Because he would, wouldn't he? He'd left dates before. He'd left work before. He dropped everything for the adventures, for the cases, for the running about London.
But would he drop everything for Sherlock?
And what would he do when he found the evidence of Sherlock's habit resurfacing? Sure, the high would be gone by the time John arrived the next day, but the man was a doctor. A damn good doctor. He would know something was different. He would be able to tell because it was John and he was brilliant at the absolute worst times.
And he wouldn't come back after that. He would leave. That was always the invisible line in the sand. John wasn't above shooting cabbies to save a stranger or breaking into peoples' flats, but drugs? They were the final straw. His sister was an addict. Her drug of choice was alcohol. It destroyed her life, ruined her relationships, and he hates her for it.
He would leave and that would be it. There would be no possibility of ever going back.
In just six months, had Sherlock really grown so dependent on the man that he needed him there to help him through his rough times? Needed him to help him shine? How pathetic was that?
Oh.
That single thought helped him more than all the stints in rehab ever had. His phone was out of his pocket and he sent a single line of text.
I need you to come home. It's an emergency. Please. -SH
He waited, watching the clock, as a minute passed, then two. Perhaps he wouldn't come home. Perhaps he had already started extricating himself from Sherlock's life without the detective knowing. Perhaps the body parts in the fridge or the bullet holes in the wall had done it. Something. Why would anyone willingly stay living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes for an extended period of time? Surely even Sarah could provide him with a more suitable living arrangement, even with how dull she was. Maybe John didn't actually like the excitement. Maybe Sherlock was too much.
Maybe Sherlock wasn't enough.
Ding.
The chirp from his phone seemed so loud in the silence of the flat that he jumped slightly.
Be there in 25. -JW
Sherlock brought his hands together in front of his face, resting his fingertips against his lips, stared at the items on the table before him.
And waited.
24 minutes later, John threw open the door to the flat and stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the scene in front of him.
"Sherlock..."
No response.
"Sherlock, please, look at me."
John had moved closer, so when Sherlock looked at him, he was looking up into his face. John's hand came up and cupped his chin, turning his face from side to side, checking for the obvious signs of a cocaine high. Fixed and dilated pupils, elevated heart rate. It didn't help much that Sherlock's body decided to respond to John's touch that way anyway. John pulled up his sleeves, checked for new marks, and checked all the supplies on the table, never speaking a word, until he finally sagged down on to the couch next to Sherlock.
"What were you thinking?" The anger was there, as Sherlock had suspected it would be, but it was overlain with hurt so thick it made Sherlock's throat tighten up in response.
"I was so bored, John. There's always so much noise, and when I get bored... I can't block it out. It never stops. It never goes away. Three weeks without a case, all my experiments are exhausted, and then... then you were gone too. I couldn't handle it. Everything just got so loud and I needed it to stop."
John was silent for an uncomfortable amount of time that was probably only 15 seconds or so. It felt like a lifetime to Sherlock.
"Why didn't you follow through? Why text me?"
Sherlock wanted to say that it was because he was a better addiction than cocaine. Lasted longer, provided enough entertainment, helped focus his thoughts, provided company... But he knew that wouldn't go over well.
"I've never had someone in my life who I genuinely didn't want to disappoint until you came along. You're... you're my friend, John. If I had done this, you would have left. Sure, you would have stayed for a little while, tried to help me through it, see me through rehab, try to fix me, but it wouldn't have worked. You would have left eventually and never come back. I don't want to consider what would happen in that event."
The pause this time was longer, but Sherlock couldn't discern what was going on in John's head. His face was wiped clear, obviously on purpose, until the moment he made whatever decision he was working up to.
"Sherlock, I'm going to get rid of this, of all of this. I'm not going to mention it to Lestrade or Mycroft or anyone. This is going to be between us. But I am going to destroy every last item in that box. I am going to flush the cocaine. I am going to crack the syringe. I'm going to toss the bloody box into the fireplace. While I'm doing that, you're going to shower and put on something respectable like you usually do. Then we're going to go out to Angelo's and you're actually going to eat something. I don't care if it's just an appetizer, but you're going to eat. Then we're going to go exploring the city. There's a club not far from Angelo's that's been having a bit of a problem with street fights in the alleyway next to it. It could be dangerous.
"But before all that, you're going to promise me that the next time this happens, the next time it gets this bad, you're going to tell me, just like you did this time, though hopefully before you go and actually waste the money on the drugs. I wouldn't have gone this weekend if you had explained to me how bad you were getting. I need to be told things directly, especially when something is actually bothering you, because you are such a drama queen sometimes, I can't tell when you're being serious or not. Alright?"
Sherlock nodded. John was better than he deserved, and he would promise anything so long as it meant he was going to stay.
"Good. Now, go shower."
Sherlock did as he was told, leaving John to destroy the last vestiges of Sherlock's life before him.
At Angelo's, Sherlock took a bite from his second piece of banoffee pie.
If he was going to have one, gluttonous vice, he decided, pie might just suffice.
